


Demands

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 17:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6204964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then Sakuraba steps over the doorway into the equipment room and Takami is on him as instantly as if he’s just been waiting for the other to step into the shadows." Takami is desperate and Sakuraba is more than willing to give him what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demands

Really, it’s a miracle they make it off the field at all.

Sakuraba’s been watching Takami’s fingers for the last hour and a half, staring at the other settling his grip in against the laces on the sides of the football before he lifts his arm into the smooth arc of a toss, and by the time Takami ducks his head to adjust his glasses and declares that they’ve done enough for the day Sakuraba is half hard in spite of his best attempts to keep his mind on what he’s supposed to be doing. He’s flushed as much about that as by the exertion of practice, glad to the sweat clinging to his forehead to give him an excuse for the color in his cheeks, and then he steps over the doorway into the equipment room and Takami is on him as instantly as if he’s just been waiting for Sakuraba to step into the shadows.

“That was awful,” he says, his voice shuddering into darkness to match the shadows in his blown-dark eyes. His hand lands at Sakuraba’s shoulder, drags up hard into the sweat-damp hair at the back of his neck, and Sakuraba chokes on a breath and stumbles backwards to fall against the wall behind him. Takami’s hand lands at his waist, fists into the fabric of his uniform, and Sakuraba’s cock flushes painfully hard against the resistance of the cup inside his uniform pants before Takami has even kissed him. “I was thinking about this the entire time.”

Sakuraba opens his mouth to say something -- a curse, maybe, maybe offering a whimper of agreement -- but what spills past his lips is “Me too,” the words raw on honesty he doesn’t recognize until it’s on his tongue, and then he’s leaning forward and catching the shadow at Takami’s open mouth with his. Takami’s eyes shut immediately, he makes a low choking noise into Sakuraba’s mouth, and then Sakuraba’s licking past Takami’s lips and he forgets all about speech or even the framework of coherency for his thoughts. It’s too much just to have Takami on him, against him, pinning him back against the wall of the equipment room, and Sakuraba is just starting to regret the barrier of their clothes when Takami lets his shirt go and drops his hand down to catch at the edge of Sakuraba’s pants instead.

“Oh,” Sakuraba manages, and Takami pulls back from his mouth to gasp for air in the space between their lips, to stare heavy-lidded at Sakuraba’s mouth while his fingers work the laces of the other’s pants open. “Shouldn’t we...go back to my place or…”

“No,” Takami says, absolutely certain on that one word. His fingers are inside Sakuraba’s pants, now, sliding under the waistband of the fabric and catching against the top edge of his jock strap. “We should stay right here.”

“Are you sure?” Sakuraba asks, because the field is abandoned and there’s no one likely to interrupt them but they’re technically in public, he thinks, and he’s pretty sure this is at least a little bit illegal or going to be very soon.

“Yes,” Takami says, and he’s looking back up at Sakuraba’s eyes, his gaze blown so impossibly dark Sakuraba isn’t sure he’s seeing anything clearly anymore, isn’t sure if it’s his features earning that meltingly hot gaze or just the fire in Takami’s veins bleeding out into his expression. He can feel the tremble in the other’s hands, the force of desire finally achieving what the pressure of a game never has. “I want you _right now_ , Sakuraba.”

Sakuraba shudders at the thrum under Takami’s voice, at the resonance of pleasure overlaid so closely with desperation that he can’t pull them apart. “Okay,” he says, because he can’t find it in him to so much as hesitate when Takami sounds like that, when he sounds like he’s watching his heart beat in the cage of Sakuraba’s fingers. “I can suck you off, give me a minute to--”

“No,” Takami says again, his fingers tightening against Sakuraba’s neck and his gaze sliding back down to linger at the other’s mouth, at the tension against his throat, at the line of his shoulder against his uniform. “I want you to fuck me.”

Sakuraba’s throat closes up on the exhale that tries to force itself out of his chest, turns it inside-out into something that sounds a little like he’s been punched and a lot like all the blood in his body is trying to rush to his cock at once. It’s not comfortable, with the resistance of the cup still around him, but Takami’s leaning in to gasp heat against his throat and that’s enough to push away any possible complaints Sakuraba might have.

“Right here?” he’s asking, his voice dragging itself through a vocal range he didn’t know he had. His hands curl at Takami’s hips, press hard against the strain of muscle and the edge of bone, and Takami makes an awful groaning sound into his throat as digs his fingers in hard against the back of Sakuraba’s neck. “In the _equipment_ room?” Takami’s still panting against his skin, still struggling with the tangle of Sakuraba’s clothes, and with the distraction of those dark eyes hidden at his shoulder Sakuraba can stare at the clutter of the room, at the practice dummies lined up against the wall and at the bin of footballs in the corner. There’s not even clear wall space except for the few feet they have right here, there’s not even -- and then Sakuraba sees the bench, the old weightlifting equipment tucked back in the corner of the room, and the mental image hits him with the force of a tidal wave. It’s easy to parse Takami gasping against his throat into Takami panting over the bench, easy to take half-formed inventions of Sakuraba’s late-night mind into the sudden clarity of possibility, and it’s abruptly more than he can bear to have Takami on his feet and pressed against him instead of folded over the bench with Sakuraba leaning over him.

“Okay,” Sakuraba says, his voice cracking in the middle of the syllable, and his hands are tight at Takami’s hips, pushing the other back as quickly as Sakuraba steps forward. It’s an awkward movement, more of an extended stumble than a graceful glide, but Sakuraba doesn’t care; it’s worth it for the way Takami is sucking pressure against his skin, for how hot Takami feels through the weight of his uniform. They hit the bench, Takami first and backwards, and Takami falls so abruptly Sakuraba nearly goes with him before he can catch himself with a knee against the support.

“Sakuraba,” Takami says, his voice slurring the sound of Sakuraba’s name to suggestion. When Sakuraba looks down Takami is staring shadows up at him, his glasses half-fogged and his lips damp and parted. His hair is sticking to his forehead, falling out of the minimal style he usually gives it; he looks halfway ruined already, even though Sakuraba is the one with his pants mostly undone and dragged halfway off his hips.

“Okay,” Sakuraba says pointlessly, and ducks to kiss Takami hard into the dusty shadows of the corner. Takami groans into his mouth, knees falling wider from his position on the bench as if he’s already ready, and Sakuraba fumbles for a hold at Takami’s hip, a touchpoint to ground himself out as he sucks hard against the soft of Takami’s lower lip. “Turn over. On your knees.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Takami breathes, like maybe he didn’t really think Sakuraba would follow through, like his offer was just a suggestion and not a demand. Sakuraba considers being embarrassed, hearing the tone of command under his own voice, but Takami is obeying before he can get traction on his self-consciousness, sliding off the edge of the bench to drop to the floor and turning over to balance on his knees. Sakuraba falls back as quickly, moving to kneel behind Takami as the other reaches out to brace his arms against the dusty bench; there’s clear spots left in the dirt, the dust clinging to Takami’s uniform instead of to the vinyl of the bench itself.

“We’ll have to clean this after,” Sakuraba says, distracted for a moment by the necessity of secrecy.

“It’s fine,” Takami says, rushing the words into a waterfall of heat past his lips. His shoulders are shaking. “Sakuraba, _please_.”

“Okay,” Sakuraba says again, and leans in close, bracing himself against the dusty bench with one hand so he can tug at the laces at the front of Takami’s pants with the other. They come open easily, sliding loose of their stays like they’re as eager as Takami is, and Takami’s breathing harder, Sakuraba can hear every desperate catch of his inhales as if he’s been running, as if he’s still running, as if this is a marathon with the end coming into sight. He pushes at the cling of the fabric to Takami’s hips, peels it down and off the other’s thighs, and he can see how Takami is shaking, can see the tremble of anticipation running all up his braced-out legs like he’s gone electric with want for Sakuraba’s touch. Sakuraba whines, his breathing dragging past tension in his throat, and when he reaches out Takami jolts at the contact, goes tense and straining at the ghost of Sakuraba’s fingertips over his hip.

“Please,” he’s saying as Sakuraba loosens his jock strap, as the other curls his fingers under the weight of Takami’s clothes and drags them down off his hips. Takami groans as his cock comes free, relief audible in his tone, and Sakuraba reaches around for him and closes his hand into a fist on the other’s length as Takami jerks and pants against the bench. “Sakuraba, _please_.”

“Okay,” Sakuraba blurts, the only thing he can remember to say, and Takami is hot to the touch and going slick with the slide of his fingers and he can’t figure out how to back away, how to recollect himself into the awareness he needs for this. “I don’t--we don’t have any lube, what should I--”

“Vaseline,” Takami says, twisting his head to look back over his shoulder and to the shadows in the corners of the room. His eyes are dark, his mouth open and wet; Sakuraba’s stomach goes into free-fall, his skin goes sticky-hot against his clinging clothes. “There’s a first aid kid, there should be--”

“Right,” Sakuraba cuts him off. “Got it, I’ll.”

“Go,” Takami tells him, freeing one of his shaking arms to reach down and take over the grip on his cock. His head tilts down, his shoulders curving under the weight; the back of his neck is slick with sweat, flushed so pink Sakuraba can see the shadow of color even under Takami’s tan. He wants to lick it, wants to press his lips to the salt there and never pull away, but Takami is repeating himself, saying “ _Go_ ” with more command, this time, and Sakuraba goes, sliding himself backwards with enough force to break the hold Takami’s bowed head has on his attention. It takes him a few minutes to find the box in question -- everything is a jumble, and he’s not thinking very clearly -- but Takami is still waiting when he turns back around with the necessary jar in hand, still quivering in expectation as he strokes up over himself at an agonizingly slow pace.

“God,” Sakuraba says as he drops to a knee behind Takami, as he twists the lid off the jar with shaking fingers. Takami slides his knees wider, the motion straining against the clothes caught around his thighs, until Sakuraba can see the angle of his cock in the shadow between his legs, can see the weight of his balls drawn up tight with anticipation. It makes him shudder, makes him groan, and then his fingers are slippery and heavy with the makeshift lubrication and he’s reaching for Takami’s hip, closing his hand on the angle of it to hold the other in place while he presses his fingers against Takami’s skin. Takami is hot to the touch, slick with sweat over all his exposed skin, and he shakes when Sakuraba touches him, groaning something low and desperate with want as the other’s fingers slide across his entrance.

“ _Please_ ” he says again, but Sakuraba’s moving already, dipping a finger inside the other without waiting for the command. Takami’s spine arches at the friction, his shoulders coming up as his back dips down, and he makes a sound that draws Sakuraba’s touch in deeper in sheer instinctive response, his movements pulled by the need to hear Takami’s throat work around that sound again. He’s hot, burning to the touch and tensing hard around Sakuraba’s motion, but his hand is moving faster over his cock and he’s breathing so hard Sakuraba can see the motion of it in the shoulders hunched under Takami’s sweat-damp shirt. Sakuraba thrusts in deeper, farther, and Takami gasps a breath, filling his lungs with an inhale so suddenly Sakuraba can hear the promise of words a moment before they come.

“Harder,” Takami tells him, letting himself go to set his hand against the edge of the bench like he’s bracing himself. “Faster.”

“I’ll hurt you,” Sakuraba says, but he’s drawing his hand back anyway, taking another drag of motion with enough speed that he cringes with it. Takami’s head goes back, his throat tearing on a groan, but when he speaks again it’s to say “ _Harder_ ” like a demand, like a plea, like he’s dying for wanting the friction of Sakuraba’s hand. Sakuraba chokes on his inhale, manages a gasp of heat, and when he moves again it’s harder as ordered, hard enough that Takami rocks forward against the resistance of the bench in spite of Sakuraba’s hold at his hip.

“Fuck,” Takami says, breathless and wanting against the bench. “ _Yes_.”

Sakuraba does it again. His arm is shaking, his head is spinning, and he’s sure Takami’s moans are going to turn the edge to pain at any moment but they just keep getting lower, like the other’s voice is drawing back down his throat and into his body in an attempt to meet the force of Sakuraba’s finger inside him. Takami starts rocking back, tilting his hips backwards to meet each forward thrust of Sakuraba’s hand, and when Sakuraba touches a second finger alongside the first Takami makes an anxious, shattered sound that leaves no doubt as to his preference in the matter. Sakuraba thrusts in with both without giving himself time to hesitate, without giving himself a chance to panic, and Takami rewards him with a full-body tremor Sakuraba can feel tight around his fingers, with a groan that dips his head forward again and goes through Sakuraba’s veins like liquid fire.

“God,” Sakuraba says, not recognizing his own voice for how it trembles, and he pushes in harder, deeper, watching the tension against Takami’s spine shift in time with his movements. “Takami, you--”

“More,” Takami pants, and he doesn’t sound like he can take more but he’s pushing himself backwards, rocking towards Sakuraba’s touch on legs visibly shaking with sensation. “Sakuraba, I--”

“Okay,” Sakuraba says, his voice cracking, his hands shaking, and thrusts in harder. “Is that…?”

“ _Ah_.” Takami’s throat strains, his shoulders flex, and Sakuraba can’t breathe for the pressure of heat in his chest. “Farther forward, tilt your fingers.” Sakuraba angles his wrist, takes another slick thrust, and Takami shudders, one of the hands bracing against the bench curling into a fist, his elegant fingers digging in against his palm. “Fuck, you’re almost--” Sakuraba tries again, rocking his whole weight forward this time behind the press of his fingers, and Takami’s words cut off into a sudden wail of sound in his throat.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, his smooth voice gone raw and grating over the consonants. “ _Yes_ , fu _ck_.”

“Oh my god,” Sakuraba says, his voice quivering itself out of control in his throat. “ _Takami_.” He moves again, thrusting his fingers forward again with that same jolting force, and Takami’s hand slides on the bench, his shoulders collapsing forward over the support.

“More,” he gasps, shoulders shaking as he tips his head down, as he presses his forehead against the bench so Sakuraba can see the strain of effort in the back of his neck. “Sakuraba, _fuck_ me.”

“Jesus,” Sakuraba breathes, his fingers shaking, his inhales sticking in his throat. “Right now?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Takami says, sounding half-pleading and all desperate. “ _Please_ , Sakuraba.”

“Okay,” Sakuraba says, because he can’t think what else to say and there is no part of him considering refusing. “Okay, I will.” He draws his fingers back; Takami shudders, quaking at the friction, and Sakuraba’s spine goes hot with a rush of heat, anticipation running to flame under his skin. His pants are half-undone already; it’s easy to drag the laces the rest of the way open, a simple matter to push the fabric off his hips and partway down his thighs. The jock strap is a little trickier, more of a tangle of fabric and harder to push aside with the mess he’s made of his clothes, but finally it’s done and Sakuraba’s clothes are enough out of the way that he can reach out, can brace his hand at Takami’s hip while the other pants heat over the bench.

“Please,” Takami groans as Sakuraba’s fingers dig in at his hip and find a handhold against his skin to steady them both. Takami is shuddering with heat, his whole body thrumming motion; while Sakuraba reaches out to fumble with the Vaseline Takami quivers like he’s been shocked, his legs flexing into the tension of anticipation. “ _Please_.”

“I will,” Sakuraba says, his voice catching high on the words. His palm is hot against his cock, the cold of the Vaseline heating fast under the friction of his movement; he gives himself a cursory stroke, spreads the lubrication to something like even distribution, and that’s all he has time for before Takami groans a desperate, shattered sound breaking on the incoherent syllables of Sakuraba’s name and all Sakuraba’s composure gives way. He whimpers, his exhale turning into a moan at the back of his throat, and he’s leaning in, fitting his knees to the insides of Takami’s and tipping his weight in to brace at the other’s hip. Takami is breathing harder still, is gasping for air made raw on expectation, and Sakuraba looks down and steadies his hold on himself as he rocks his hips forward. Takami shivers with the contact, groans at the drag of friction, and then Sakuraba is pushing forward and into him and he doesn’t know which of them is the one who moans the other’s name first. It’s all heat anyway, the tangle of their words like the tangle of their limbs, and Sakuraba is leaning closer as he thrusts deeper, the force of his forward motion granted strength more from instinct than from his shaking legs.

“ _God_ ,” Takami groans underneath him, his head tilting back so his hair catches against Sakuraba’s cheek. “ _Fuck_ , Sakuraba, _yes_.”

“You’re so hot,” Sakuraba says, his words gone pointless on sensation. He draws his hips back, takes another thrust forward, and Takami shudders under him. “Takami, you’re so.”

“More,” Takami says, his hand gripping so hard at the edge of the bench Sakuraba can see his knuckles going white with the effort. “ _Harder_.”

“Oh my god,” Sakuraba says, shaky with disbelief, but he’s obeying anyway, drawing back to take another hard drive into the other. Takami groans, hot and incoherent with friction, and Sakuraba does it again, feels the heat in his body turning to the dark shadows of sensation. Takami is shaking under him, his head curving back down to bare the slope of his neck above the collar of his shirt, and Sakuraba presses in close, pins his shirt against the damp catch of Takami’s so he can fit his mouth to the other’s skin. Takami tastes like salt, sweat damp on Sakuraba’s lips and dust catching in the other’s hair, and then Sakuraba gets one hand free to reach around for the other’s cock and Takami jolts, moaning low down in the resonance of his chest, and then Sakuraba isn’t thinking about what he tastes like because all he can consider is the shudder of tension flexing against Takami’s spine just under his mouth.

Sakuraba’s hand is sliding over hot skin, his cock driving deep into the tremor of Takami’s body under him, and he can’t breathe except for the steam radiating off Takami’s skin and he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to pull himself and Takami apart into their separate components. Better like this, with Takami’s choking breathing doing the job for them both, with Takami tensing around Sakuraba as Sakuraba’s fingers tighten around Takami, Sakuraba’s movements uncoordinated and unstudied but rough enough to send them both shaking towards satisfaction together, every thrust of his hips drawing a raw broken sound up Takami’s throat in response. Takami is shaking, or maybe it’s Sakuraba who’s trembling, maybe it’s Sakuraba’s legs that are flexing to strain them closer, to force their bodies impossibly nearer. Sakuraba drags his hand up against Takami’s cock, takes another rough drive of his hips, and Takami breaks, his voice cracking into a high, anxious wail as he jerks and comes over Sakuraba’s fingers and the undone front of his pants. He’s shuddering through the sensation, his entire body wringing tight under and around Sakuraba, and Sakuraba can’t see straight, can’t still the movement of his body; all he can do is keep moving, keep thrusting with that desperate rhythm until his vision flickers to white, until his tension eases into inevitability, and when he comes it’s in long, shaking pulses, Takami’s name melting itself to sweat-salt heat on his tongue.

It takes Sakuraba a long time to pull away, after. His vision has to fade back in, his breathing has to slow; his heart is still pounding hard in his chest when he manages to draw his lips away from Takami’s skin and manages to straighten enough that he can let himself slide out in a spill of slick that catches against Takami’s trembling thighs. Takami doesn’t move; he stays still as if frozen, his head bowed down to press against the bench in front of him, with only the tremors running all through his body to speak to his continuing reaction.

“Takami?” Sakuraba asks, hearing his voice shake as badly as his hands do when he reaches out to touch his fingers to the outside of Takami’s bare leg. He’s damp to the touch, the sweat from their training and their more recent exertion evaporating to a chill on his skin. “Are you okay?”

“God,” Takami says, his voice raw and rough on the word. He shifts his weight sideways, lets himself fall to the floor; when he turns to face Sakuraba it’s in the shape of a collapse, his shoulders falling back to the support of the bench as he lifts a shaking hand to adjust his glasses. His mouth is open, his eyes are unfocused; he looks wrecked, everything in his expression melting into such a bone-deep satisfaction he looks obscene even without considering the mess they’ve made of his clothing. “ _God_.”

“Are you okay?” Sakuraba asks again, because Takami doesn’t _look_ like he’s in pain but he’s still shaking, Sakuraba can see the shudder of breathing running through his shoulders with every inhale.

Takami blinks, tips his chin down, focuses his gaze on Sakuraba with visible effort. There’s a pause, a moment for Sakuraba’s heart to twist painfully in his chest; and then Takami smiles, that same satisfaction spreading to all-over pleasure across his face, and Sakuraba lets out a breath of relief even before Takami reaches up and out for him.

“I’m okay,” Takami says, his fingers sliding across Sakuraba’s shoulder to pull him in closer, to curl against the back of his neck as he pulls himself upright and in range of a kiss. “I’m _great_.” He’s smiling when he kisses Sakuraba, printing the outline of his happiness on Sakuraba’s mouth, and Sakuraba can feel affection like a pressure in his chest, swelling against the shape of his ribs to weight the threat of almost-tears to his throat and behind his eyes.

“Oh good,” he says, and he’s leaning in as Takami tips them both back, following the pull of Takami’s smile like it’s a magnet and he’s iron, the two of them drawing closer to each other with every breath they take. “I’m glad.” Takami laughs against his lips, the sound bright and warm and blissful, and Sakuraba shuts his eyes and ducks to kiss the salt off Takami’s mouth.


End file.
